TOTD 12: Catch a Falling Star
by robinwitch1
Summary: Tales of the Dragonborn, 12. The Synod researcher finds that the formal end of his project means little, as an important figure from the past who he earlier tried but failed to meet reaches out to him with new information. (A few details may be unclear without reading "I Take You With Me.")


Catch a Falling Star

"The Council were impressed with your report," Second Adjunct Bromfell began, gesturing expansively in what the fussy old fop no doubt considered an elegant manner. "That is, except for Avenicci, who seems to have been under the impression that you would be bringing back some sort of Dwemer schematic for a Dragonborn that would allow us to grind out as many copies as we pleased. He picked away at some of the details you provided, and at your methodology, but in the end, I think all he succeeded in doing was to highlight the caution that you displayed throughout."

"In any case, Avenicci didn't vote against the report being accepted," Bromfell added after a short pause. "He only abstained, and the rest of the votes were in favor. And that means that the project is concluded, at least as far as you are concerned, and a complete success. There will be another major assignment in due course, but for the time being you can get back to basic research on whatever takes your fancy. Review some of the information on Hermaeus Mora, perhaps? I've been told that our _dear friends and respected colleagues_ from the College of Whispers are dead set on summoning him, but as usual, they're playing with fire. Best to prepare ahead. If they succeed in _seriously_ annoying old Herma-Mora, we could be in for an interesting time."

The two of us were in a private dining room at the Broken Spear, an eating-place in the Elven Gardens district of the Imperial City, whose decor runs heavily to relics of the battles between the Aldmeri Dominion and Imperial forces during the Great War – particularly items whose condition indicates that the unfortunate Altmer who had been wearing or wielding them had come to a sticky end. The "broken spear" of the inn's name refers to the splintered shaft from which the inn's sign hangs, a long lance that had transfixed no less than three elven helmets before snapping. The helmets are still tightly jammed onto the shaft; I momentarily wondered how they had gotten the heads out of them, and then decided that I didn't really need to know, before dinner, or after, or ever, for that matter.

We were picking over the remains of a meal as we talked, a meal which by coincidence happened to be almost identical to that which the Dark Brotherhood had served me before I left their stronghold, minus the sleep potion, of course. It was distinctly inferior in quality to the Brotherhood's cooking, something I decided not to mention to Bromfell. I had never referred directly to the Brotherhood in my final report, citing only "unnamed but unquestionably reliable sources" for the information that the Dragonborn had been the assassin of Emperor Titus Mede II. Still, this news was presumably one of the things that had upset Counselor Avenicci. He had always been a great Dragonborn fan, and one of the chief promoters of my investigation, though he might be having second thoughts about that now.

And the story, "Imperial Assassin Identified at Last!", had been on the front page of the _Black Horse Courier_ the very day I submitted the final draft of my report, before the report had even been copied and distributed. So much for Synod security, I muttered to myself when I saw it. Tell one mage and you've told them all. The place was as leaky as a sieve.

"You may be right," I replied, resuming our discussion after a few moments of silent consumption. "Mora doesn't seem to have a hair-trigger temper like some of the other Princes, but he's got a long memory if you get on his bad side." I began to smile. "Perhaps we should encourage them in their project, then. The more time and energy and money they have to spend appeasing an angry Hermaeus Mora, the less will be left over to compete for influence at court. So I wish them the very best of luck – up to a certain point that is, the point when they've finally succeeded in drawing Mora's full attention to themselves and their antics."

Bromfell examined me with renewed attention. "You've changed. Gotten more active, at least in your thoughts. No doubt the influence of the cold Skyrim air or something of the sort. You never showed the slightest interest in court intrigue before. Now you're thinking about tricks to trip up our opponents. Frankly, I'm glad to see the change. We're all going to have to become sneakier and better at plotting if life is to remain tolerable here."

"Something I missed while I was away?" I inquired, while conducting a last quick survey of the plates and dishes in front of us to ensure than nothing tolerable was being neglected.

"I don't know," Bromfell replied, in an unusually sombre tone, which at once shifted my attention from the food to his words. "It's just that things here seem to be getting steadily _nastier_. Pettier. Moving toward a _smaller_ world, not a larger one. There are hints of 'Cyrodiil for the Imperials' even from people you'd think would know better. Nearly all the Elven races have gone back to their homelands. You know that, it started long before your project did. The Khajiit were next; people in the countryside went from refusing to trade with them to attacking them on sight, and while you were away, they pulled out of all of Cyrodiil except for a handful that remain in the largest towns and cities. I don't blame them a bit. I'm surprised they put up with as much as they did before they left, actually. Now the Redguards have begun to disappear, even though there's very little open hostility to them – not yet, anyway. Go while the going's still good is probably what they are thinking. Another example of their characteristic foresight.

"There's stupidity and brutality on a smaller scale, too. You trip over it at every turn. Bretons getting their shops burned because one of their competitors starts a rumor that they are spies for the elves. Argonians are being accused of spying for the elves too – that's so far off the mark that I can't imagine what imbecile started it, but there are always enough imbeciles to spread it. Some thick-headed lunks are even campaigning to rename the Elven Gardens district to Talos Gardens. Can't have anything 'elven' there, you see, not in our great and mighty Imperial capital. Mindless idiots. They're killing the Empire by inches, ripping pieces off it in idle spite like children ripping the wings off flies, and they don't even have the wit to realize what they are doing."

"Are you _quite_ sure that they don't know what they are doing?" I asked. "Or that they aren't being manipulated by someone who does? It could be a well-designed campaign to split the Ten Races apart and set them at one another's throats. Are you sure than one of the Daedric Princes hasn't got his eye on Tamriel again?"

The question hit Bromfell hard; he almost seemed to shrink. The possibility hadn't escaped him, it was easy to see. Then he shrugged and shook his head. "If that's what's going on, we'll find it out sooner or later. We have no hard evidence so far. Let's worry about what we _know_ is there first."

-o-o-o-

What remained of the meal passed in a gloomy silence, and we parted at the door with a few last formalities, he to return to his own home, and I to my base in the Imperial Capital, a small suite of rooms in the Temple District, in the basement of the All-Saint's Inn. The place is dark and a bit cramped, especially with the addition of the books I had purchased or been given in Skyrim, but the Synod picks up the tab for renting it, and since I am not often there for more than a couple of months at a stretch, its shortcomings have never bothered me.

That night, as I returned, the whole area felt a little...strange. Nothing definite that I could put my finger on, though. The night sky was clear, and the stars were very bright. Masser and Secunda had already set. The city guard was on patrol, as usual, and the usual handful of people were still on the street, most of them, I supposed, returning home after some entertainment similar to that I had just experienced myself. But it was late, and despite good weather for the season, not many were still out.

The amorphous feeling of strangeness persisted as I entered the common room of All-Saint's Inn, exchanged a few words with the innkeeper and his wife, and went downstairs to my own quarters. My rooms were windowless, though well ventilated, and so remained dark even during the day, unless illuminated by candles or lamps. I took care to extinguish all of these before going anywhere for any length of time, as a precaution against fire. But when I opened my door that night, I was greeted by a flickering light at the far end of the suite, in a small room I used for a study. This irritated me – getting forgetful in my old age, I thought to myself. The last thing I needed was to burn my lodgings down by accident by forgetting to snuff my lights when I was out.

Then I remembered that the place had been lightless when I closed the door on leaving for dinner. I had made a special point of looking, as was my usual habit, because of the danger of fire. There had been no candle or lamp burning anywhere.

I walked carefully into the study. My desk lamp had been lit, and by its light I could see that there was a female Argonian curled up on the couch, asleep. It's not easy to tell the age of Argonians, since they have no hair to turn white or bare skin to become wrinkled, but something about her, perhaps the thinness of her arms, gave the impression that she was very old. Or perhaps it was the clothes that she was wearing, cut like the robes of a priest from some silver-gray fabric that I had never seen before and could not identify.

Finding her here was not what I had expected, but since she had slipped past my landlord and his guests upstairs and made it down here without attracting attention, it was clear that she had been escorted by the Brotherhood. That, or she was a master of the Illusion school of magic, and had turned herself invisible. Either way, there was presumably some reason for her to be here, and finding her relaxed enough to take a nap was a clear enough sign that she intended no harm to me. Besides, I was _almost_ sure that I could guess who she was. So I sat down in a chair on the other side of the study, lit another lamp, picked up a book, and began to read, hoping that she would wake up before I dropped off to sleep myself.

To my embarrassment, I was not successful, since the next thing I remember was my Argonian guest tapping me gently on the shoulder. I opened my eyes, and she handed me a cup of steaming liquid, from the scent a herbal infusion of some sort.

"Here, try some of this. Specialty of the house, if you live in High Hrothgar, at least. It's a bit much to take if you're not used to it, but it does keep you awake."

It was a dark fecal brown and ghastly bitter, a liquid penance, just the sort of thing one would imagine ascetics drinking. But it did have the advertised effect, though whether that was from the tonic properties of its ingredients or simply from shock to the outraged organs of taste, I could not be sure. I finished half the cup, then set it down and looked directly at my guest.

"Shah'issol, I presume. I'm honored by your presence, but also a bit puzzled. When I went to High Hrothgar at the beginning of the summer, the people I spoke to told me quite emphatically that you were not receiving visitors. What brings you so far from the Throat of the World, and why did you decide to visit me here, in Cyrodiil?"

"I'm here on other business," Shah'issol replied, "and I thought I might as well drop in. As to your reception back home...you know that the Greybeards have a low opinion of the Synod. They look down on it as too involved in the things of the world. They had the same problem with my mom at first, you know. Even after they got to know her, they still wondered at times. They never did understand why she took up with so many spirits and ghosts and Daedric Princes, and I think they even had doubts about my re-establishing the Imperial College of the Voice, although mom and Master Paarthurnax both supported it strongly. The College is worldly as well, and their reflex reaction to the worldly is to see it as inferior. Mom told them over and over again that although they had their heads in the clouds, high above Tamriel, that mountain of theirs was still sitting on the same earth that they have to share with everything and everyone else. While she was alive, she managed to keep them reminded, but they're drifting away again now that she's been gone so long."

"Mom... that's Vivian, the Dragonborn, isn't it?"

Shah'issol nodded. "I never felt right using their first names, even though both of them thought it would be the best idea. So I've kept up my childhood habit of calling Vivian 'mom' and Shahvee 'mother.' It confuses others, I know, but there usually aren't any others to confuse, so..."

She paused for a moment, her eyes down, and then continued.

"I came partly to thank you for the care you took in your report to the Synod. Especially that you never said you had succeeded in defining my mom or her Dragonborn calling. You were just describing facets of her, the best that anyone can do, really. I think your conclusions were correct, as far as they went, that the important thing if another Dragonborn appeared was not the precise terms of the gift itself, but supporting and mentoring whoever it has fallen on. Mom's case had far too much luck in it to be comfortable with, you were right to remind them of that. That Jarl Balgruf happened to know of the Greybeards, had himself made the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar, and was able to interpret their summons for her was luck. That she was able to meet two who could support her with love and care was luck again, first Serana and then mother, Shahvee. Otherwise the gift might have been wasted, or worse, used to evil ends. She always insisted, always, that it was chance and the love and care of others that kept her from going down Miraak's path, not any strength or virtue of her own. If a new Dragonborn comes, I don't know if there will be anything you can do to assist him or her. But it's good you see how important this might be, if there is some way you can help and guide that person. I hope the Synod listens to you.

"I leave High Hrothgar every year for a few weeks, to take care of the various things my parents left for others still in the world. I still have mom's old Brotherhood contacts – I'm sure the Greybeards wouldn't approve, but not all of us have the luxury of being as detached as they are. It was through the Brotherhood that I learned of your report, and that was how I received a copy of the final draft even before it was distributed. It was painful to read, but not because you had said anything wrong or disgraceful. You were right, I think, and all the stories you gathered about her and those who had been influenced by her were fascinating. It was painful because it brought them both back to me, so clearly, and made me remember once again how much I miss both of them. I am very old now, and I suppose that sooner rather than later, I will set out on the journey they made long ago and meet them again at its conclusion, but that's no consolation. I wish that they were here, now. Every day, every hour, I miss them."

"Serana feels the same way," I said. "She told me that she still loves your mom, that there has never been anyone who has taken her place, even though she knows that she was not the right person to stay with your mom and she's truly happy that your mom found Shahvee. She told me that both the blessing and the curse of her immortality is that she will remember your mom forever, and love her forever, and miss her forever."

"I think I know how she feels," Shah'issol replied. "They tried so hard to see that I lived a happy life. No one could ever have had better parents. But in the end... I don't think they realized it, but in a way, they only made it worse. I could never find anyone to love myself, because they were my model of a perfect relationship, and they were... too perfect, I suppose. They couldn't help it. It was just the way they were. And I have never been able to be that way with anyone... they didn't insist that I be perfect, they kept me grounded in reality, they didn't fill my head with unrealistic expectations... but their example, lived day to day, a song sung over and over, always perfect but never the same... living in their presence was like looking too long in the direction of the sun. Everything else seems dark in comparison."

She paused, and looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers, before speaking again.

"You know...I can't draw at all. I'm terrible at art. But I always wanted to make pictures, to represent what I saw with my eyes and with my mind. And I never could. When I was young, that made me miserable; I cried over it, many times. My parents reminded me that I have other gifts that others lack, and that is true, but it didn't make up for it, not entirely. I wanted to draw, but I could not; it was something that was beyond my reach, forever. And that's how I feel about the way they loved each other. It was a talent, a gift, not something that you can blame yourself for not having. I'm glad I was able to witness it, I'm forever glad that they were my parents, but they were far, far beyond me and I can never be as good as they were. I don't blame them, I don't blame myself. But it still hurts. It always hurts. It's like being outside at night, and seeing the sky all full of stars, wanting to reach up and pluck one like a flower, and knowing that you will never be able to. You can look at them, and see how very beautiful they are, but they can never be yours. That's how I've felt all my life. Gazing up at something so very beautiful that will always be beyond my reach."

"Everyone who knows about their relationship feels the same way," I said. "Even those who learned of it long after it took place. When Decimus Cornelius in Windhelm showed me the description of the letter your parents sent to his grandfather Caius about their life together, and the depth of their love...at the end of our talk, he said, 'I wish I had known them,' and I could tell from his expression and the tone of his voice that it wasn't just a conventional phrase. He must have thought about them over and over again, and their example must have helped shape his own life as well." A thought suddenly struck me, and I continued, "Come to think of it, he's not married, he lives alone. I wonder how long he has known about your parents, and looked up to them as an example of the ideal relationship. Perhaps ever since he was a youth. And I wonder if it has affected him the way it affected you, compelling him to settle for nothing less than perfection because he _knew_ that it was possible, he had _seen_ it, not a dream or fantasy but real in the world, and so afterward he could never be content with anything less."

"For that matter, you don't seem to be married yourself," Shah'issol remarked. "How long have _you_ been studying my parents?"

I shook my head. "It isn't quite the same thing with me. I _was_ married, once, long ago. My Elissa was an Altmer in exile, a young High Elf estranged from her family and kin, who was studying the School of Conjuration at the College of Winterhold. We met when I was very young myself, scarcely out of my teens, at the College for a year or two to pick up the rudiments of magic. People told us not to get involved, that the much longer lifespan of pure-blooded Altmer would bring us nothing but grief, but of course we didn't listen to them. We were too close to care about anything or anyone else, like the two halves of a single person. And it was ironic, but what happened in the end was exactly the reverse of what everyone had warned us about. Elissa fell ill of a wasting disease that resisted all the efforts of the Restoration masters at the College, and died, very quickly, less than two years after we were married. She may have picked up the illness from one of her fetches, the people at the College said. It didn't really matter to me, since knowing why she had left me wouldn't bring her back.

"Just before she died, she told me to do my best at whatever tasks fate laid before me, and never to forget her. And she also asked me to name a daughter after her, if I married again and had children. But I never have. I think you can understand why. I had somehow managed to reach up to the stars, and catch one for myself, but it slipped from my grasp and returned to the sky, and I knew I would never be able to reach that high again.

"Perhaps that was why I came to specialize in the history of the Dragonborn, and study, among other things, the love between your parents. It was some consolation to me to see that devotion strong enough to break down all barriers of time and place and race and culture was sometimes tolerated by the gods. Your parents were eventually separated by death, for a few years at least, but they had decades together in the mortal world to work together and to love and to raise a child, you. Of course my case wasn't quite the same. My Elissa would have been a powerful mage had she lived, but she wasn't Dragonborn or anything so portentous. She would never have been central to the workings of the age. But we might have had a life together, like Vivian and Shahvee. A home. Children. Your parents were not an ideal that tantalized me with a vision of what _could be_. Instead, for me, they have always been a reminder of what _could have been_. Not what I tried but failed to find. What I found, and then lost."

We were silent for a long time after I finished, the only sounds the occasional faint scrape or thump from the inn above, itself settling down for its evening rest. Shah'issol sat looking down at her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers together slowly, again and again, as if she were knitting or weaving. Finally, she straightened both her hands, stretching the fingers out, and put them on her knees. Then she looked up at me again.

"I think we need to move beyond our pasts," she said, her voice very soft but steady. "There's no use in either of us lingering over what might have been. All that matters now is what _will_ be. The only way we can honor those we once loved is to make the future better. That's what they would have wanted.

"You know what it's like out there. How it's changing. Worse every day. If your Elissa had lived, and you had stayed in Cyrodiil, just about anywhere outside the Imperial City, you'd be separated now, or in hiding together. Or dead. Perhaps you would have killed yourselves out of despair, like another mixed couple that I knew, to escape to where the whispers and rumors and stone-throwing and midnight attacks can never touch you. And if my parents came back to life, they would be horrified at how quickly we have learned to hate and fear each other. I saw it coming even before mom died, but I didn't confront it directly enough. I made myself into an imperial bureaucrat, training Tongues to strengthen the Legion. It seemed like a good idea then, but it didn't do anyone any good in the end. We could fight off any external threat, no doubt about that, but this was far more dangerous, something inside us. Jurgen Windcaller was right. There _are_ times when force is worse than useless. There _are_ enemies that cannot be Shouted away. The Greybeards take his teachings to a ridiculous extreme, refusing to engage with the world at all. But that doesn't mean he was wrong."

"The military's dissolving like everything else, in any case," I said. "Even some of the orc units are losing soldiers, deserting to go back to defend their homeland. We're lucky that the Aldmeri Dominion is too preoccupied with internal plots and backstabbing, and its never-ending vendettas with the Bosmer and Dunmer, to be much of a threat."

"Then who gains from all this?" Shah'issol asked. "Is it all just chance, that every power, every force that works in the open in Tamriel is degenerating, falling to pieces? Or are we being softened up? Are we going to have to face another invasion from Oblivion?"

"Bromfeld, the fellow from the Synod that I had dinner with tonight, is afraid all of this is the work of one of the Daedric Princes. But we'll never know until it's too late." I shook my head in doubt. "After all, it's not as if we could just go and ask them."

"Why not?"

"Excuse me?"

Had I just heard what I thought I had heard, or was I having some sort of hallucination?

"Ask a Daedric Prince? That doesn't sound very... practical." What I was going to say at first was "Have you gone completely out of your mind?" but I managed to pause at the last moment and word it a bit more diplomatically.

Shah'issol was laughing to herself at my reaction. It took her a moment or two for her to regain enough composure to reply to me.

"Some people might not think it fair for me to depend so heavily on mom's old connections, so I try not to take advantage of them too often. But she served Mehrunes Dagon, in her time, and I carry His artifact, Mehrunes' Razor, with the Lord's permission. We've spoken before, more than once. He doesn't have a shrine in Cyrodiil, of course – he's made himself rather unwelcome here – but there is an altar to him in Skyrim. We could just go there and ask him."

"Ask Mehrunes Dagon? The Lord of Destruction? Why would He condescend to tell us anything? A pair of mortals who are just, well, just a _little_ bit more important than ants in His eyes. Why should He respond to us? And even if He did, how would we know whether or not He's telling the truth?"

"You have to remember who He is," Shah'issol said, in a precise tone of voice, as if she were lecturing to a class of beginners. "Lord of Ambition, Change, and Energy, as well as Revolution and Destruction. As Lord of Ambition, He is more likely to be amused than annoyed when mortals turn out to be a bit... ambitious. Or even impertinent. So long as we are not disrespectful. That's why mom got along so well with Him. She teased Him, but there was always the respect underneath it all, the recognition of His position and His power that He requires.

"So the question will not anger Him, I think. As to whether He will answer, and answer truthfully... you have to remember, as one of the most powerful of the Daedric Princes, Lord Dagon's pride and self-confidence are boundless. He will consider it beneath His dignity to dodge the question or to give a misleading answer. He's not a riddler like Sheogorath or a slippery bargainer like Clavicus Vile, much less an outright cheat like the Ideal Masters. He'll tell us the truth. Especially if it happens to be one of the other Princes who is involved. Then, He'll be more than happy to give us all the details, in the hope of causing trouble for his rival. He is not likely to be pleased by any attempt by one of his fellow Princes to meddle with Tamriel when He has so recently – at least in Daedric terms – suffered a humiliating failure here. He absolutely _hates_ to be upstaged."

I stared at the ceiling for a long moment, not for the first time, but perhaps for the last, wondering what I had gotten myself into. It was starting to look like my association with the Brotherhood was more a belated new beginning than what I had first thought it to be, the furthest and strangest point of my life's adventures. I hadn't ever thought that a chat with Mehrunes Dagon would be on my to-do list one day. But I hadn't thought I would be joining the Brotherhood either. What other things that I hadn't thought I would ever do were waiting for me in my future? I realized that I was beginning to _enjoy_ questions like that.

Shah'issol was looking at me with a twinkle in her eye. If her facial structure had allowed her to, I'm sure she would have been grinning.

"Just what I've _always_ wanted to do," I finally said, after a long silence. "One of my life's greatest unfulfilled ambitions. Visit a mountaintop Daedric shrine in the middle of winter to have a friendly chat with the Lord of Destruction. He's the one who provides a brace of dremora free of charge to entertain guests when they come to visit, isn't He?"

"I wouldn't worry about that," Shah'issol said, in an old-lady reassuring voice, wagging her finger at me. "I didn't study how to Shout for over half a century without learning enough to send _that_ lot sailing over the mountain slopes like butterflies in a storm. Just leave it to me."

-o-o-o-

Two weeks later, we found ourselves carefully picking our way down the stairs from Dagon's shrine in Skyrim as twilight turned to night around us. It had stopped snowing, for the time being, but gusts of wind were still picking up great handfuls of white powder and throwing them into our faces as we walked. At the foot of the stairs, we re-united with our escort, a dozen members of the Dark Brotherhood disguised as bodyguards for hire so as to pass without attracting too much attention. A few yards further down the path, the bodies of a pair of frost trolls lay sprawled in the snow at the foot of a tree, caught and killed there by our escort while we conducted our business at the shrine above.

Shah'issol looked at the dead trolls for a moment, and then gestured to the escort captain to come closer.

"Young people these days," she complained to him when he halted in front of her. "Waste not, want not. Aren't you going to harvest the fat from those trolls? It's valuable, you know. No point in throwing money away."

"Yes, ma'am," the captain replied with a broad smile, and gestured for one of his men to do as Shah'issol had suggested.

Shah'issol turned to face me.

"It's interesting that you seem to have reacted to meeting Dagon much the same as I did the first time that I encountered Him, when mom brought me here to ask permission for me to carry the Razor," she began. "The Princes aren't as alien and incomprehensible as people make them out to be. Everything went well then, and everything seems to have gone well today. All you really need to do is stay wide awake, show respect, look them straight in the eye, and have a good reason for disturbing them. As for the rest... I've had more trouble from a greengrocer."

I nodded, and looked back up at the shrine, nearly hidden by blowing snow and the darkness of the night. Shah'issol was right: apart from the burst of action at the very beginning, it had proceeded very much like any other successful meeting I had had in my life with the proud and powerful.

"It started out a bit hectic, though," I said. "We had some good fortune there. But I suppose it made things go more smoothly in the end."

Shah'issol laughed. "That was luck, all right. Both in what happened, and the fact that it happened at all. I think Lord Dagon was impressed, in spite of Himself. That's good. It might be useful in the future as well."

-o-o-o-

Luck had certainly been on our side. When we arrived at the platform before his shrine, Dagon had given us his customary greeting in the form of not two but three dremora waving daedric weapons and howling theatrically for our blood. Shah'issol had tried to Shout all three to a quick doom, but she had been taken a bit off guard by their being one more than she had expected. Two of the three were flung backwards to disappear off the edge of the shrine platform into the blowing clouds of snow, never to be seen again, but the third was a bit to the side and so was struck an oblique blow, one that spun it around and slammed it face down on Dagon's altar, momentarily stunned. I happened to be standing next to the altar, and when the third dremora landed almost directly in front of me, I seized the enchanted sword it let slip and stabbed down instinctively, pinning the unfortunate daedra to its master's own offering table for a few seconds, until it screamed and vanished in a crackle of unnatural bluish fire. There had been a burst of deep, ominous laughter at the conclusion of this rather farcical scene, and then Dagon had begun to speak, in a tone that made it clear he was entertained rather than angered by the quick demise of his would-be champions.

_**It has not often been that Dagon has been offered the sacrifice of one of his own vassals on his own altar. Your quick reaction was interesting to see, mortal, and I am pleased. But what business do you have with the Lord of Change and Destruction?**_

-o-o-o-

"Still, in a way, we're no further ahead," I said to Shah'issol as we began making our way back down the slopes to the road that led to Dawnstar. "Lord Dagon told us that neither He nor any of the other Princes is behind what is happening. It's an affair among mortals, He said, and I got the impression that there's something about it He _really_ doesn't like. I suppose it's a relief to know the Princes aren't involved, but it doesn't tell us where to look or what to do next."

"One thing at a time," she replied. "At least we don't have to be constantly peering over our shoulders, fearing an attack from the planes of Oblivion. I think Dagon's distaste may indicate that the threat will come from a mortal or mortals who try to take over... remember that He still considers himself the legitimate ruler of Tamriel, and being pushed aside by one of us would be even more infuriating to him than facing competition from another Prince...Why are we stopping?"

"I have no idea," I said, peering into the darkness and blowing snow. The guards in front of us were slowing to a halt, but I could not see why. A few moments later, the captain came running back to us from his usual position at the head of our procession.

"Might be trouble, ma'am," he said, addressing Shah'issol. "There seems to have been an attack on the road ahead of us. We'll have to stop and check the area to make sure we're not walking into an ambush as well. Usually bandits don't try to hold their ground, but we can't afford to gamble."

Shah'issol began to walk forward again, quickly. She gestured to me to keep up with her, and then replied to the captain.

"I can do that more safely than you. I have a Shout for that. Aura Whisper will tell us soon enough whether there's anything still alive in the area. It's not one of the easier Shouts, and only a few of the Throats whom I taught at the College were able to master it, even at a basic level. But I have it in its full power."

The captain nodded, and all three of us hurried forward to find out what had happened.

-o-o-o-

We stood at the scene of the ambush, wondering what had taken place, and why. Shah'issol had Shouted in all directions, but apart from a fox or two, she had been able to discover nothing living. Whoever had attacked our fellow travelers must have made off at top speed as soon as their work was done, since the attack had happened at most only a few hours before our arrival on the scene.

There were six or seven smashed wagons still harnessed to the carcasses of their teams, and several dead saddle horses. It looked as if everyone in the party had been killed. They had been Khajiit, one of the larger caravans. Some showed arrow or sword wounds, and all had had their throats cut, even the children. The captain's expression was sombre. There was too much hatred in these systematic mutilations for this to be a mere bandit attack, he told me. Besides, he pointed out, whoever had done it had left valuables scattered all over the place. There were at least a dozen locked chests in the wagons, but none of them had been touched. His men had picked up several coin purses as well as loose gold from the surface of the snow. One of them had turned a circlet in to him that must have cost several thousand septims, gold and diamonds. A strange thing for a traveler to be wearing on the road, especially a Khajiit, a people not given to ostentation. Perhaps its owner had tried to buy her life with it. But whoever had cut her throat hadn't even bothered to take it from her head.

Shah'issol stood exhausted by the side of one of the ruined wagons, leaning against me, her eyes fixed on the ground. It took a great deal of energy to Shout a half-dozen times in succession, even something that did not toss the outside world back and forth, like Aura Whisper. And she was no longer young. But it was more than weariness. I put my arm around her shoulders, and found that she was trembling violently.

"This is how I began," she whispered to me, in an old, thin voice. "Where I came from. And where I would have ended, if mom and that good Nord guard captain hadn't found and rescued me. I can't remember it. I hadn't even hatched yet. But I dream sometimes of my birth mother's pain, and the peace that came to her at the very end, when she knew that I would be safe and that she could die. I've never told anyone this but... my name, Shah'issol... the dream told me that it was her name, not mine. Argonians don't usually select a child's name before it hatches; we think it's bad luck. Mom and mother forgot about that... or they didn't care... It doesn't matter. It has been a good enough name for me. Almost as if my life could pay her back in some indirect way for what she suffered, her blinding, her torture and death in the dark and cold. Perhaps that's why she told them. To put something of herself beyond the darkness, beyond the pain, in a future that might be better. That _was_ better.

"But now... _everyone's_ dead here. The children have all been killed. What I might have been, how I might have been finished before I even began, a broken egg, a cold body and frozen blood on the snow. I _hate_ this."

She began to cry, quietly and hopelessly, leaning against me. The guard stood around in small groups, uncertain what to do next. Their faces were so grim that I was almost relieved that we hadn't caught any of the attackers; I don't think they would have died very quick or pleasant deaths. Thank all the gods that none of the group happened themselves to be Khajiit, but there were Imperials and Nords, Bretons and a Redguard, a Bosmer and a pair of Orcs, brothers, who had found the first dead child and had carried the small corpse around with them for a time as if they hoped it would come to life again, until the captain had gently told them to lay it down beside all the others. We had gathered all the bodies in one of the wrecked wagons, straightening them so that they could be buried with some dignity before they froze into grotesque shapes. I had no idea what we were going to do with them, though. We couldn't possibly leave them for the wild animals, but the ground was as hard as iron, and there was nowhere near enough fuel to cremate them.

-o-o-o-

After a time, Shah'issol quieted, and I was able to lead her over to one of the Khajiit tents that the guards had salvaged and set up, quite a bit more spacious than our own. They were warmer as well, since their high ceilings allowed building a small fire in a brazier without danger of starting a conflagration or stifling the occupants. We got Shah'issol settled into a camp bed and covered her with furs, and she fell asleep almost immediately. Then I went out again to take one more look at the remains of the caravan. Something was bothering me, nibbling away at the edge of my consciousness like an industrious mouse, but at first I couldn't quite pin down what it was.

Shah'issol had become so upset because the scene paralleled the one she remembered from her own history. But not exactly. In this new scene, where was her counterpart? Nothing was alive here. Or was it?

I suddenly remembered how merrily my Elissa had laughed. Her talent for magic had been far greater than mine, and often, when we learned new spells, she had mastered their refinements while I was still struggling with the basics. But she had never lost patience with me, however much I stumbled. I thought back to when I had been practicing the Detect Life spell with her. I had missed it again and again, but she had stood behind me and guided my hands, and when I finally managed to cast it without an error, she had spun me around and kissed me passionately, startling an old Dunmer who had been dozing on a bench a little to the left of us. It had been early summer, around the time of our first and only wedding anniversary, about half a year before she died.

But hadn't Shah'issol tested the surroundings with Aura Whisper, over and over? What good was I going to do with my little spell, far weaker than her Shout?

It suddenly dawned on me: the surroundings, yes. To make sure that we would not be ambushed, and there had been nothing to see, no hint of possible trouble to investigate, anywhere around us. But the tangle of broken wagons, listing and overturned, the scene of the crime itself? Had she checked that? Perhaps not.

It has been so many years now. I had almost forgotten. Then I heard Elissa's laugh again in my mind, and the rest came in its wake, the spell. I could only hold it for a few seconds. But a little way to my front there had appeared a faint glow from a tiny shape, all but imperceptible, flickering, but not gone, not yet.

One of the orc brothers was standing beside me, watching what I was doing. He seemed to understand, and I remembered that he had some magic himself. As soon as the spell faded, I pointed at one of the wrecked wagons, one that had been caught underneath two others, so we had not had time to finish digging it out. There was no need to say anything more. He knew what I meant at once, and called hoarsely to his brother to come help us lever up the wreck.

Working together, the three of us rolled the wagon over, inch by inch, slowly and carefully. Bolts of brightly colored cloth tumbled out, unrolling over the blood-marked snow. Underneath the wagon, protected by the cloth, there was something that moved, cowering away as the light broke in upon it, whimpering soundlessly. It was a female Khajiit cub no more than four or five years old, I guessed, half-frozen and trembling. She stared at us in terror, but was too cold and weak and small and confused to put up much of a fight.

I picked the tiny form up carefully and cradled her. She struggled for a moment, and then began to relax as she realized that we meant her no harm. She burrowed into my clothing, seeking my warmth, and I knew she had come into my life for good and all, a tiny, fallen star. One of the orc brothers reached out his huge rough hand to stroke her, and the Khajiit rubbed her head against his palm, closing her eyes and arching her back. His brother took one look and ran back to the camp to alert the others, shouting as if it were the end of the world, or the beginning.


End file.
